The Greatest Man To Never Be A Good One
by EmptyHeads
Summary: Just a sad Johnlock fic, it gets Johnlock-ey in the second chapter and the first chapter is just torture. I'm terrible at summaries. First Johnlock fic. Criticism welcomed :) Stick with it, please :)
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock was not the kind of man to say how he was feeling...unless he was feeling bored – in which case it was made painfully obvious. And this John knew...quite well, almost to the point where he completely ignored Sherlock's apparent emotionlessness. During cases every once in a while Sherlock might get too excited for the occasion, but people just chalked that up as Sherlock. That was who he was...a high-functioning, bad timing, antisocial, sociopath.

John, however, was almost the complete opposite – unless he was angry beyond belief, in which case, to tell whether he's upset or plotting you're untimely death can never be positively determined. John was a man who expressed how he felt. He kept Sherlock in check, made sure he didn't get too excited at the wrong moments, and was one of the most human human beings in the world.

He laughed, he smiled, he frowned, he plotted, he fell in love.

And we all know the story, Sherlock jumped, John fell in love, Sherlock came back, and John was married to Mary.

John was happy, Mary was happy, and Sherlock...well, Sherlock, was Sherlock. There really was no other way to describe the man. What no one expected was Sherlock to turn to drugs...why would he? He was clean, he was the man that couldn't be killed. He had so many people behind him, caring for him, loving him. But did he really understand that?

For what it's worth, Mary and John, they are two people worthy of each other; always have been, always will be. But maybe it would have been better if they had never met. Sherlock would never have shot, John would never have had to endure the betrayal of yet another close person. John and Mary, of course have a beautiful girl, they named her Sherly, after John's best friend. She is a gorgeous little thing, she has her father's eyes, and her godfather's name. So she will obviously grow up to be someone important – beyond important.

Back to Sherlock though, yes, he went back to drugs. He moved John's chair, claiming it was blocking his view of the kitchen, but he had never needed to see the kitchen before. What made it so necessary now? Nothing, he just missed his blogger. He would never say so though...he was who he was, which made it impossible for him to do such a thing.

He never said it, he showed it. He showed it by throwing himself off a building, he showed it by staying away for two years, he showed it by allowing himself to be subject to torture, he showed it by shooting a man in the head...he showed it by not doing anything. But his love was so painfully obvious it was overlooked. Looking back it shines like a light in a dark room.

But today, today wasn't about looking back as much as it was looking into the future. John and Mary will continue to love their child. Anderson will continue to conspire. Moriarty will continue his death. Mycroft will continue being the British government. And life will continue.

Once, Sherlock faked his own death...

And I hope to God...that is all this is, even if we have to endure this for another two years...please let it all be fake."

And with that Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade let out a sob, because no matter how much he wanted to believe it he knew that the man inside the coffin was Sherlock...And this time he wasn't coming back.


	2. The Second Cup

When Mary and John had fights they usually only lasted all of five minutes, ten tops. But this time, John wasn't sure that he was ever going back, he wasn't too keen at the thought of it either. Which left the dilemma of not having a place to stay. He had called Harry, she said Clara was back and he really didn't want to be there when she was newly arrived. He had called some of his friend's but they were all busy. Hell, he had even tried to get a hold of Mike, but his voice mail alerted John that mike was currently out of the country. There was only one other place he could go, but he didn't really think he should go there...221B Baker Street was no longer his home. But maybe Mrs. Hudson had a guest room he could use for the night.

So John Watson hailed a cab, the man sitting in the driver's seat reminded him slightly of the cabbie from their first adventure, him and Sherlock. He coughed to cover the sniffle that came with remembering the death of his friend. Greg had done an amazing job with his speech, and he managed to voice everything everyone else wanted to say. John wasn't sure what he was going to do after he got the call from the hospital that Sherlock had to undergo surgery but wasn't looking too good. He cursed the damn drunk driver in that damn car. Why had it been Sherlock? Why not some random other person...Bloody hell! Now he was really going crazy.

As the cabbie finally pulled to the side and stopped, John snapped out of his reverie. He paid the man and slowly walked up to the familiar door that had the golden coloured 2-2-1-B on it. He knocked lightly before letting himself in. He walked in, took off his jacket, and called out softly to Mrs. Hudson, just in case she was sleeping or anything of the sort. Hearing no response he assumed she was upstairs tidying up the mess Sher...he had made. He walked up the stairs cautiously making sure not to make any loud noises so to not startle the landlady. He found her in the room that he used to call home with her back to him setting down a tray of tea on the table near the couch. He stood at the doorway and called out to her. She turned sharply and gasped,

"John!" She quickly wiped her hands on her dress and walked up to the man to give him a hug.

"John Watson!" She said a little louder than necessary, "I thought you may never come back! I was missing you here." John smiled at her as he pulled away. She asked him to go downstairs and just sit in her kitchen so she could take care of her tea tray, he did so. But not before noticing that there were two cups on the table...not one.

He really didn't take any heed to it, after all she wasn't his landlady anymore, this wasn't his home, she could do whatever she wanted with it. He sat at the table in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and waited for not but three minutes before he heard her coming down the stairs. She was carrying the tea tray, with a kettle and one cup mounted upon it. A voice in the back of John's head wondered where the second cup had gone to, but he dismissed the thought as too much time spent with Sherlock.

"Would you like a cuppa, love?" John smiled at her as she kindly poured him a cup (she used the kettle from the tea tray John noticed). She handed it to him, he brought it to his lips and took a sip. It was pleasantly warm. _Why was it warm if it had been upstairs?_ John kicked his mental voice in the shin.

"So, how have you been Mrs. Hudson?" John asked finally speaking to the elder women, she smiled wryly at him,

"As well as I can be, dear. How are you?" She sat across from John with a cup of tea in her hands as well. John shrugged,

"Fine, Sherly said her first words the other day." Mrs. Hudson cooed and asked what the words had

been. John visibly winced, "She said his name." They never really said Sherlock's name any more...almost like it was a sacred word that should never be spoken in case they may disrespect his memory. Mrs. hudson gave him a sympathetic smile and reached out to grip his hand tightly,

"We all miss him John...I know you were very close, and I know you miss him very very much. But take some comfort in knowing he died a good man." John closed his eyes and thankfully clutched onto her hand.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson. It means a lot." The thought occurs to him suddenly that maybe he could just live here. Just be as close to Sherlock as he could.

"Mary and I...we had a fight. She thinks...well, she thinks I was in love with him." He gushes out all at once, he doesn't really know why he's telling everything to Mrs. Hudson, maybe because she's the only person available at the moment. She looked at him softly,

"And did you?" He shrugged but he knew...and he knew that she knew. He had loved Sherlock. Much more than he could ever even try to love Mary. Much more than he could actually ever love almost anybody, except maybe Sherly. It was too bad that he never got the chance to say so. Mrs. Hudson did indeed understand,

"Oh John, I can't -" She was interrupted by a loud thud from upstairs. She looked up, "Oh, dear!" she mumbled under her breath. "You stay here John, I'll check on it!" She gave him a pointed look and scurried upstairs to see what was going on. John being John of course didn't stay still. He picked up his tea and climbed the stairs behind Mrs. Hudson quietly so not to alert her of his following. He heard voices and paused for a moment. One of the voices was definitely Mrs. Hudson but the other one was too low to hear from his position. He got closer and made it just outside of Sherlock's old room before he could actually hear the voices.

"He's here! I can't exactly just tell him to leave!" Mrs. Hudson's voice exclaimed in a tone that expressed upset to a suffocating degree. John edged closer and what he heard next made his jaw drop.

"Well I can't exactly go down there and see him now can I? Not only am I attached to this bloody thing but can you imagine? Oh look John! I'm not dead! Just like last time, ey? He would likely kill me."

"Sherlock! You can't stay in here forever and sulk! Once you've healed you can go and explain everything!"

"No Mrs. Hudson! You don't understand, my even being here is putting everyone close to me at risk."

"Oh Sherlock, get off your high horse! Mycroft had him executed he can't harm John anymore." John froze, someone wanted to hurt him?

"It's not just John! Its more-"

"William Scott Sherlock Holmes! If you dare even utter a word of this being more complicated than it sounds I swear I will drag him up here myself and you can explain it all to him yourself!" If it hadn't been the matter that Sherlock had lied about his death again John might of laughed at the fact that Sherlock just got a lashing from Mrs. Hudson of all people. But given the circumstances he did not.

John felt the cup of tea slip from his fingertips and though he panicked he couldn't stop the forces of gravity from taking the cup and smashing it into small pieces. The taking immediately stopped and seconds later Mrs. Hudson stepped out of the room. She seemed somewhere between shocked and as though she had expected the man to have followed her.

"John." It was a statement not a question. That meant she expected him to say something. He wasn't quite sure about what he was going to say so he went with the first thing that came to mind,

"Again? Really?" Mrs. Hudson forced a small smile and stepped aside to allow him into the room. What he saw once inside made him stop in his tracks, however.

The last time he had seen Sherlock hooked up to so many machines he was dying from a gun shot on the surgery table. But this time Sherlock was lying on the bed, he had stitches and cuts everywhere, and he was wincing every now and then. He looked so vulnerable...so broken...on that bed with books surrounding him and one on the migrating patterns of birds from Africa on the floor which he assumed had been the thudding noise they had heard from downstairs. Mrs. Hudson closed the door and left the room to give them privacy. They looked at each other for a short period of time,

"Sherlock." John said with uncertainty,

"John." And the deep voice broke the older man with one word. A single tear ran down John's cheek but he refused to acknowledge it.

"You...you..." He couldn't for the life of him come up with the proper word to insult the genius with.

"Cock? Bastard? Drama queen? Idiot? Pisser? Freak? Prick? Dick? Arsehole? Male reproductive organ?" John shook his head at Sherlock's prompting. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but his continuation was swallowed by John's mouth as he kissed him softly. Sherlock's eyes widened but he didn't push away. It was awkward, sudden, and completely blissful. And suddenly they were Sherlock and John again. The best friends, the crime fighters, the dynamic duo.

"You Sherlock!" John whispered as he pulled away.

Because that was the only word that could really describe the man. He was Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock was everything, a drama queen, arsehole, and bastard. A genius, a knight, and a savior. He was Sherlock.

"It was all for you John." Sherlock whispered back as he pulled John as close as he could without making the shorter man lie on the bed with him. And nothing else needed to be said.

And that was how the greatest man to never be a good one became the greatest good man the world has ever seen. And that was how John and Sherlock went back to their lives. If they had listened closely they would have heard Mrs. Hudson chuckle slightly from the other room as she texted Lestrade that the greatest man to never be a good one may be the best one yet.

On the dresser next to the bed sat a cold cup of tea.


End file.
